"They laugh to see a farmer strayed from his manure-pile!" purred
Yasmini over her shoulder; but Ranjoor Singh followed her unperturbed.

He was finding time to study the long room, its divans and deep
cushions around the walls; and it did not escape his notice that many
people were expected. He guessed there was room for thirty or forty
to sit at ease.

Like a pale blue will-o'-the-wisp, a glitter in the cunning lights,
she led him to a far end of the room where many cushions were, There
she turned on him with a snake-like suddenness that was one of her
surest tricks.

"I shall have great guests to-night--I shall be busy."

"That is thy affair," said Ranjoor Singh, aware that her eyes were
seeking to read his soul. The dropped lids did not deceive him.

"Then, what do you want here?"

That question was sheer impudence. It is very well understood in
Delhi that any native gentleman of rank may call on Yasmini between
midday and midnight without offering a reason for his visit;
otherwise it would be impossible to hold a salon and be a power in
politics, in a land where politics run deep, but where men do not
admit openly to which party they belong. But Yasmini represents the
spirit of the Old East, sweeter than a rose and twice as tempting--
with a poisoned thorn inside. And here was the New East, in the shape
of a middle-aged Sikh officer taught by Young England.